time of the moth

There is no greater enemy of mine than the pantry moth. Those stupid, small, brown infesters that love to taunt me every spring. I lay down the traps, bay leaves are strewn through cupboards, as per internet recommendation. And yes of course my containers are tightly sealed, don’t come for me with your simplistic and obvious solution. The pantry moths don’t care. They still come. They flit about, they settle in, they shit their eggs and I’m left with a cavalry of blind, maggoty spawn crawling over the floor, unnoticed, until I take some “me time” and start some yoga. On that floor. I am forced out of my up dog, gagging with disgust, insane with fury.

The wormy white larvae are so hard to squish. I’m sure I could be inspired by their will to live if they weren’t so fucking disgusting. I have only myself to blame. It was me that missed the narrow window of time where I should have unalived every moth. They’re legacy creatures, obsessed with multiplying. The government should study them.

I’m sure they know how much they piss me off, their yearly appearance feels targeted. No one else is talking about this happening to them down the phone to their sister at the supermarket.

This year will be different. Now is my time to kill. I will clap the air til I squish one twixt my palms. Tea towels will flick them off high surfaces and I will chase the maimed brown wings until I can render it to a smidge of muddy dust. My fury is mighty and unwavering.